It’s the Pitts: Am I Crazy?

By Lee Pitts

In this column, I’m going to reveal a secret that may destroy my career as a cow columnist. It’s so bad, my fellow cowboy friends may boot me from their ranks. My wife says I should just hobble my lip and never reveal my secret, but I think I’m being dishonest in not leveling with you.

So here goes.

I can’t eat the beef I raised. Just can’t do it. No, I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan, and I’ve never eaten a Beyond Beef burger or a fake piece of Impossible beef. No cheeseburgers without beef for me. 

Here’s the thing – I could always eat lambs and hogs I raised. In fact, I quite liked them. One of my biggest projects in FFA was raising cute little white bunny rabbits for meat, and I had no trouble whacking them on the neck. I found them to be quite tasty. I’m not kept awake at night by nightmares of those bunnies looking at me with their cute little pink eyes.

In FFA I raised a couple Mallard ducks I named Chester and Charley. I know the old adage says you’re not supposed to name an animal you intend to eat, but those two ducks were the best comedians in the barnyard and they gave me many hours of enjoyment just watching them. 

A smile comes to my face even now when I think of them, and yet, I had no trouble gobbling them down. Let me tell you, beef is the only thing better than duck with a little orange sauce. 

I hate to admit this, but we also raised a lot of chickens – both for their meat and for their eggs – but this isn’t the big admission I mentioned at the start of this column. 

I gagged down the tough hens, but I refused to eat their eggs. To this day, if I see someone break the yellow yoke of an egg and mix it with perfectly good potatoes, ham and pancakes, it’s enough to make me spew.

I’ve gobbled down trout I caught and had no trouble eating anything I hunted, but I do admit I don’t relish eating deer meat. It’s not because I melt like a snowflake when I gaze into a deer’s sad eyes, it’s just that I don’t care for venison. 

To me, it’s almost as bad as eating liver, which is the single worst-tasting thing I’ve ever eaten in my life, except for lima beans. Yuck!

As a kid I was raised on one acre of ground which I transformed into a huge garden. While I’m not a big fan of radishes, beets and turnips, I didn’t hear them scream when I jerked them from the ground. And I don’t dislike every tuber because I absolutely love potatoes. 

To this day, I still have a wonderful taste left in my mouth by home-grown sweet corn, cantaloupe, broccoli and green beans. There’s no better refresher in the world than home-raised cold tomatoes with salt on them.

Yet, I couldn’t eat any of the steers I raised, and I absolutely love beef. Even as a rancher later in life I much preferred my neighbor’s beef to that of my own, and I think there’s something wrong with me psychologically since I can’t enjoy beef from cattle I raised. 

Is it just because I’m a big old pansy or is there something mentally wrong with me? Could I be crazy?

I decided to seek professional help. I’ve never understood the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist, but I took advantage of the fact a psychologist moved close by.

One day I casually asked her about my beef-eating problem, but she said she was not the one to ask as this was beyond her realm of study. 

“But, based on what I’ve observed just watching you from afar and now hearing this about you, my professional opinion is yes, you are nuttier than a wood rat and belong in an insane asylum,” she said. “And not just because you can’t eat your own beef. But just to be sure, I think you should see a psychiatrist.”

“But what’s the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist?” I asked.

“About $150 an hour,” she replied.